


the night's not over

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ben and Bev's Wedding, Blow Jobs, Hook-Up, Hotel Sex, M/M, No facials but Eddie imagines it, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, mention of Eddie/OMC, wet dick Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29508822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “No, not how you would ask someone to dance,” Eddie says, all of the thoughts tumbling against each other in his mind, clinking like the ice in his nearly empty glass, and his mouth goes dry. He gets the feeling, familiar now, that he gets before he’s about to do something reckless. He swallows hard. “How you would ask someone back to your hotel room.”Eddie and Richie fuck after Ben and Bev's wedding.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 21
Kudos: 199
Collections: Clowntown Kink Meme 2021





	the night's not over

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [clowntown2021](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/clowntown2021) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Richie and Eddie fuck after Ben and Bev’s wedding. 
> 
> Could be established Richie/Eddie, could be a hook-up. That’s up to you.
> 
> I know this one was just filled but I have been working on this for over a month! For you, anonymous prompter, a second fic. I hope you enjoy! Now I can finally read the other one.

Three drinks in, Eddie loosens his tie, and on the fourth drink he loses it somewhere — abandons it on the back of a chair, drops it on the dance floor doing the twist with Bev in the beaded jumpsuit she’d changed into for the reception, maybe leaves it on the bar when Richie leans against it, besuited shoulder brushing Eddie’s, and offers to buy the next one.

“It’s an open bar, dumbass,” Eddie says. He knocks back the last of drink number four, even though it’s little more than faintly alcoholic melted ice and a cherry garnish.

“Aw, come on, Eds.” Richie jostles him with a gentle elbow. “Whatcha drinkin’?”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.” Eddie sets the empty glass on the bar and chews the cherry, ignoring the way Richie watches him, the way he’s smiling, all giant eyeteeth and laugh lines radiating from behind his glasses, like he has been all night. Fuck. Eddie has a tendency to get poetic when he’s tipsy. Speaking of. “A Manhattan. Two — no, three cherries.”

Richie leans on the counter to flag the bartender and make small talk while he orders — patter, really; Richie never fucking turns it off — and Eddie looks, the way he’s been looking all night: at the breadth of Richie’s shoulders under showy silk brocade, the curls slowly escaping from his slicked-back hair to rest at his temples and the nape of his neck. The square corner of jaw where Eddie wants to set his teeth. His familiar lopsided smile, more pronounced as the night wears on, knocked further askew by inebriation or exhaustion or both.

Only a few months into his first year as a single - well, separated - out, gay man in New York City (complete with Grindr profile, weekly therapy appointment, and pre-furnished loft in the meatpacking district like it’s 2005,) Eddie had looked up from fucking Seth, 38, 0 feet away’s throat, fingers buried in curly hair, and been stricken by it, as if he’d been hit by lightning.

Seth had pulled off with a slick, resonant pop, chest heaving. He blinked up at Eddie — long lashes, clear blue eyes. “What’s up? Everything okay?”

Eddie ran a thumb along Seth’s square, stubbled jaw. He was taller than Eddie, when he wasn’t on his knees, with broad shoulders and a broad chest and thick thighs. He dressed like a muppet, but he sucked dick like he was slurping an oyster on the half-shell. 

“Yeah. You’re good at that,” Eddie’d said, and Seth had smiled, a little goofy and lopsided. Eddie had cupped a hand around his neck and guided him back down.

Richie’s resting an elbow on the bar, stretching the suit jacket over his shoulders, and when he laughs his whole body jerks, like he’s surprised. He’d got a haircut for the wedding, or what passes for one — “Can’t fuck with the brand, Stanley,” he’d said when Stan had given him shit about it, “or my manager will kill me” — but his hair still curls at the nape of his neck, around the legs of his glasses.

He’s been looking all day, since Richie walked into the hotel that morning, in a stained t-shirt and jeans, and said “oh, hey, Eds.” Like Eddie hadn’t been in LA for the week leading up to the wedding. Like Richie hadn’t been busy, every time Eddie had tried to make plans. Like he hadn’t arrived late to the rehearsal dinner the night before, or left suspiciously early, ducking out alongside Patty, who at least had the excuse of cultivating an imminent human being inside her body all day and night. All Richie was cultivating was a bald spot and a reputation as a newly- out and wholly repentant former gross-out comic, with moderate success.

The alcohol is smoky and sweet. Eddie holds it on his tongue and watches the dancefloor, letting himself slump a little closer to Richie, elbows resting on the bar, their forearms barely touching. The music’s slowed from 1, 2 Step to something floaty and sweet, but Bev’s still out there, glittering in the low light, one hand draped on Ben’s broad shoulder, the other in his. Ben’s smiling, murmuring something to her. Bev laughs, and pulls him closer, winding her fingers in his hair and resting her cheek on his shoulder. Ben closes his eyes, and Eddie looks away to the giant white balloons tumbling into the pool outside, like frothing champagne bubbles.

When he looks back, he finds Stan and Patty quickly, heads bent together, and then — Mike and Bill. They’re dancing, too — not as smoothly as Ben and Bev, and not embracing, but closer than Eddie would expect. Mike’s head is bowed toward Bill’s and he’s smiling. It’s a smile Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen on Mike before, quiet and sweet. It suits him. Bill’s beaming dopily back, one hand splayed open on Mike’s chest.

“Hey, Rich,” he says, intending to point them out, but Richie’s already looking, and Eddie forgets what he was going to say. His mind gets caught on the line of Richie’s shoulders in his perfectly-tailored suit — fucking thank you, Beverly — and the line of his jaw, the sweaty hair at his temples. He’s been looking at Richie all night, but not this close, and not alone. So can he really be blamed if he loses the thread a little?

“Yeah, Eddie?” Richie turns to him and raises an eyebrow, and Eddie realizes he’s neglected to say anything at all.

And instead of pointing out Mike and Bill, knowing Richie’s already seen them, instead of saying something normal and innocuous, like “nice ceremony” or “it’s a bit warm in here, don’t you think?” or even “thanks for the drink,” and leaving it at that, Eddie gestures toward the dance floor with his glass. “You wanna?”

Richie laughs, one short burst, loud and incredulous. “Do I wanna? Do I wanna what? Dance? With you?”

“Jesus. I mean, you don’t have to,” Eddie frowns and swirls the ice in his drink. Christ. It feels just like getting rejected at the middle school dance, only worse, because he’s forty and separated and it’s Richie, not Becky Sherman - who was a bitch anyway - laughing at him. “Fuck, forget I said anything.”

“Well shit, Eddie. Are you serious?” Richie shakes his head and shoves a hand in his pocket, lifting his glass to his lips with the other. Eddie watches him swallow, again, watches him lick his lips. They’re shiny from his drink, the condensation on the glass. Probably cold, from the ice. “‘Do you wanna?’ That’s not how you ask someone to dance. That’s how you ask someone back to your hotel room. Or like, not even that, that’s the sleazy way—”

“Well, asshole, how would you do it?” Eddie hisses.

“What, ask someone to dance? I mean, ‘May I have this dance’ is traditional, if a little formal. I’d probably go with ‘would you like to dance with me, Eddie?’” Richie’s fidgeting, playing with something in his pocket — maybe a crumpled napkin, or the keycard to his hotel room.

And maybe it’s the fifth drink that makes him say it. But it’s the hours of watching Richie from across the room, trying not to stare at the way his jacket makes his shoulders and chest seem impossibly broader, or the way his thighs look in his pants, or even, god help him, his distracting hands, plucking at his cufflinks or raising a flute to toast the bride and groom, that set him on the course. It’s the months of video calls, late into the night, the worry lines in his forehead and smile lines at the corners of his lips that Eddie wants to trace on the screen, the stubble and shadow along Richie’s jawline, the one time he answered the call shirtless in bed and Eddie’s whole body flushed hot, even though the covers were pulled up to his armpits. The way he realized, midway through his first year of being single and gay in New York City, that he had a type — shoulders, thighs, strong square jaw — and that Richie was the blueprint. 

It’s the feeling that broke out in Eddie’s cheeks, his throat, his whole body when he walked out of the baggage claim and there was Richie, waiting for him, smiling the stupid sarcastic smile he does when he’s nervous, hands shoved in his pockets, and when Eddie walked up and hugged him, Richie hugged Eddie right back, and Eddie thought in that moment: _holy fucking shit_ , he thought: _so this is what that is._ He thought he’d been hit by a truck.

And now here he is after days of conspicuous absence, pulling up alongside Eddie at the bar at the end of the evening, his suit jacket falling open to give Eddie a glimpse of his suspenders.

“No, not how you would ask someone to dance,” Eddie says, all of the thoughts tumbling against each other in his mind, clinking like the ice in his nearly empty glass, and his mouth goes dry. He gets the feeling, familiar now, that he gets before he’s about to do something reckless or brave. He swallows hard. “How you would ask someone back to your hotel room.”

“I— what?” Richie blinks.

Catching Richie off-guard is a rarity, and something Eddie would crow about, normally, but instead he waits. Takes another swig of his drink. “You heard me.”

“Eddie… Jesus, man. Are you,” Richie coughs, choking on his own spit. “Are you serious?”

His voice has gone hoarse. Eddie doesn’t look away from Richie, who is - of all things - _blushing_ , even as he downs the last dregs of his drink and shoves the glass back on the bar.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I’ve been, uh. I’ve been thinking about it. For a while, now.”

“You sure?” Richie says, swallowing hard, finally meeting Eddie’s gaze. He looks a little wide-eyed. He looks - he looks fucking good, even with the stupid unceratin slant to his mouth, the softness around his eyes.

“Are you?” Eddie counters. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

He doesn’t have to look back to know Richie’s following him out of the venue, past the dance floor and out onto the lawn. Everything’s gray in the moonlight, save the hotel lit up in the near distance, wind off the mountains rustling the palm trees. It’s a clear night, and even with the lights and the near-full moon, Eddie can still see the stars.

Neither one of them say anything, but Richie looks skittish and wild, like if Eddie moves too suddenly, he’ll go shooting off back to the reception. The thought makes him laugh a little — Richie got like this when they were kids, too — jittery and strange, oddly quiet, though Eddie never could figure out what would set him off. Here he is now, twenty-seven and some years later, keyed up and ready to jump out of his skin. It’s strange to see on a grown man. Eddie wants to wrap his fingers on the back of Richie’s neck to keep him on course, to bring him down.

So he does, sliding a hand up Richie’s back to comb through the hair at the nape of his neck. Richie starts under his touch, but lets Eddie’s hand stay, leans into it when he squeezes.

Richie doesn’t drop the keycard when he opens the door — he doesn’t even have to swipe it twice, like Eddie has the entire weekend — but pressed up against Richie’s back, hands slipping under Richie’s tuxedo jacket to run up his sides and splay across his chest, Eddie can see his hands are trembling, just slightly.

He doesn’t comment on it, but it feels fucking good. To knock Richie off-balance for once, instead of the other way around; to affect him in turn, a reversal of the constant background buzz in his mind: _look at me_ , _pay attention to me. Think about me_.

The room’s lit only by the reflected light from the pool dappling the walls and ceiling — a mirror image of Eddie’s, and one he barely sees before he’s shoving Richie back, one hand curled around his arm, the other pinning him up against the wall, letting the door slam shut behind them.

He hears Richie’s keycard fall to the floor, and then Eddie’s kissing him and Richie’s kissing back, the rustle of their clothes, Richie’s quiet gasp the only sound in the empty room. 

Richie kisses desperate and deep, urging Eddie’s body against his, rucking up Eddie’s suit jacket and hooking his fingers in his belt loops. Eddie pushes up against him, slipping a knee between Richie’s legs, smiling into his neck when his hip presses against where Richie’s hard in his trousers.

Richie had been freshly shaved when Eddie helped with his tie that morning; now there’s a five o’clock shadow darkening along his jaw and neck. It drives Eddies a little crazy, rough against his lips and tongue, the salt of Richie’s sweat and the smell of him, the low noise he makes in the back of his throat when Eddie scrapes his teeth on the sharp edge of Richie’s jaw.

He pulls Richie off the wall by his velvet lapels, swallowing his gasp, and starts peeling his suit jacket down his arms as Eddie herds him over to the bed. He lets the jacket drop and spares a mourning thought for the silk brocade, but only for a moment. Richie’s far too distracting, yanking Eddie’s shirt free from his waistband and pawing at his belt, turning them around so Eddie lands at the foot of the bed. He pulls Richie with him, and Richie stumbles as he goes, catching himself on the edge of the mattress as he lands on his knees.

Eddie cups Richie’s jaw in his palm, sweeping a thumb over his lower lip, wet and warm. Richie gasps a little, a sharp inhale that takes up too much space in the sprawling room.

He’s suddenly aware of every place their bodies touch — Richie’s handsome face cradled in his hand, Richie’s forearms pushing against his thighs, Richie’s legs brushing against his calves. Eddie wants more, wants to feel every inch of Richie pressing into him: his big hands, soft belly, the giant kneecaps he used to knock against Eddie’s at every opportunity. He remembers comparing them with his own, one fitfully lazy summer, in the throes of flushed rage at the sheer breadth of Richie, uneasy want mistaken for envy.

The reflected light casts Richie in shadow, and suddenly Eddie just wants him closer, wants to be kissing him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. So he pulls Richie to him, coaxes him off-balance until he’s braced against Eddie, hands braced against Eddie’s thighs, hot even through the fabric of his suit as he moans into Eddie’s mouth.

Eddie bites at Richie’s lower lip and his grip tightens, digging into Eddie’s flesh almost enough to hurt. He can’t help but arch into it, abruptly and overwhelmingly aware of how hard he is, how his body feels like a live wire, snapping and arcing under Richie’s hands. He watches Richie notice, too, as he pulls away, his gaze dropping to the unmistakable bulge of his cock and back to Eddie’s mouth.

“Eddie, do you— Can I—” Richie asks, but Eddie’s already nodding, leaning back and wending his fingers through Richie’s hair as he bends his head closer, fingers fumbling over the slick fabric.

Richie shoves Eddie’s pants open and pushes his shirt out of the way. Cool air hits Eddie’s bare skin and chills the wet patch on his underwear. Eddie barely has a moment to think to be embarrassed before Richie’s eyes go wide. 

“Holy shit, Eddie.” Richie runs his knuckles along Eddie’s dick, and it twitches in his boxers, loosing another rush of pre-come, soaking his underwear further. He shivers at the slick rush against the head of his dick, at the way Richie bites his lip and inhales sharply, like he’s trying to hide it.

“Rich—”

“Jesus, Eddie, you’re— you’re so goddamned wet,” Richie breathes. Eddie moves to push his hand away but Richie’s already withdrawing to bring his fingers to his mouth.

Richie drops to his knees and sucks the fabric, and for all the shit he was giving Eddie back at the bar, Eddie’s sure this isn’t the first time he’s done this. His thumbs are hooked under Eddie’s hipbones and he strokes over them as his spit soaks into the material, warm and slick. He pulls back and runs his fingers over Eddie’s dick. Eddie shivers at the cooling damp, twitching away from the friction of the material on sensitive skin.

“Look at you,” Richie breathes. “What the fuck—”

“Are you going to talk about it, or are you going to suck it?” Eddie tightens his grip on Richie’s hair and pulls. Richie inhales sharply.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Richie says again, but he doesn’t sound angry at all, maybe dazed, as he tugs Eddie’s underwear down and takes Eddie’s dick in his mouth. He’s good at this, Eddie realizes, watching as Richie presses his tongue under the head as he pulls off, closing his eyes.

He likes it, too, Eddie thinks.

Curious, he tightens his hand in Richie’s hair, gently pushing him back down. Richie leans into it, groaning and pushing into Eddie’s grip, fingers flexing on Eddie’s thighs.

“That’s it, baby,” Eddie says. Richie grunts and doubles his effort, eyelashes fluttering as he takes Eddie deeper. “Fuck, Richie.”

Eddie’s trousers are wrinkled, shoved halfway down his thighs and bunched under Richie’s hands. His suit jacket’s splayed around him on the bed. He holds himself up with one hand behind him on the bed, the other tangled in Richie’s hair, watching the way his cheeks hollow, his lips slick with spit, as he sucks Eddie off.

“You look—” Eddie hisses, breath hitching. “Look at you. You take it so good.” He tightens his grip in Richie’s hair, guiding his pace. Richie moans, pushing into Eddie’s palm. The half-light in the room darkens the hollows of his cheeks, the shadows cast by his eyelashes, and Eddie just watches him — handsome Richie, on his knees, Eddie’s dick bruising up his mouth, fattening his lips. There’s spit on Richie’s chin, on his hand. Eddie wants to lick it off. He wants to sweetly remove Richie’s glasses and come all over his face, and make Richie lick himself clean. His hips twitch up at the thought but Richie just takes it, takes everything Eddie has to give him, like he always has.

Eddie lets his hand fall from Richie’s hair to his shoulder, easing him back. Richie sits on his heels, flushed and panting, eyebrows arched. His mouth is wet and pink, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Perfect,” Eddie says. Richie looks so good he’s tempted to pull him back down, fuck into his mouth until he comes. But there’s something he wants more. “But now I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh, fuck.” Richie’s flushed down to his open collar, mouth swollen red and wet, hair mussed. He looks like someone smacked him upside the head with a baseball bat. Eddie strokes his fingers from their tangle in Richie’s hair to trail down the side of his neck. Richie shivers at the touch.

“Yeah.” Eddie hooks a finger under one shoulder of Richie’s suspenders and reels him closer. “C’mere.” 

He’s surprised at his own voice, the way it comes out sexy and low, but it works. Richie comes, surging up toward Eddie and catching himself on the bed. Eddie’s suddenly nervous, but the good kind — the kind that slows him down, long enough to palm Richie’s jaw, hook his fingers into the hollow beneath his ears and pull him into a kiss so gentle he’s surprised by it, by the quiet gasp he breathes into Richie’s mouth, the way it rips through him, until he’s just shy of desperate.

Richie pulls back just far enough to look at him. “Eds—”

“Shh,” Eddie says, bringing him back in. Richie draws a sharp inhale and then, it’s not slow at all.

Richie’s almost frantic — hands moving to Eddie’s face, his shoulders and hair, rubbing at Eddie’s waist and diving into his pants to grope at his ass. Eddie moans, arching into the touch. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie shoves at his pants, yanking his underwear further down, but he’s too distracted to be successful, skimming his hands back up over Eddie’s thighs and grasping at his hips. He reaches for Eddie’s shirt, fumbling with the buttons. “You’re so fucking hot. Let me—”

“Here,” Eddie says, wriggling out of his pants and kicking them away with only the slightest twinge of regret. He slips the suspenders off of Richie’s shoulders, reaching for his belt. His hips are broader than Eddie had thought, and tugging down his pants reveals a softness to his belly, a gentle hairy curve of fat that makes Eddie want to bite him — so he does, restrained but deliberate. Richie jerks under his palms, hissing in a breath.

“Okay?” Eddie asks, and Richie nods.

“Fuck, please. Yes.”

It doesn’t take long, after that, before Eddie’s on his hands and knees on the bed, Richie’s hands on his thighs, pushing them further apart. He kisses his way down Eddie’s back, teeth scraping over his shoulder blades and the curve of his ass. The bottle of lube is lying on the bed, cold against Eddie’s calf. He feels on edge, the good kind of nervous, as Richie dips his fingers between Eddie’s cheeks, lingering there.

Richie brushes his thumb over the sensitive skin of his hole. His exhale gusts over Eddie and he bites his lip, dick twitching as an electric shiver runs up his spine.

“Eddie, please, can I— let me eat you out.” Richie says it into his thigh, half-muffled, but Eddie hears him, feels the buzz of his mouth against his skin, his hair.

“Yeah, Richie— fuck—” he manages, barely, before Richie’s mouth is on him. Eddie gasps and bites his lip, trying to stop the whine rising in the back on his throat, but he’s helpless to it.

Eddie loses track of time like this: spread out under Richie, pushing back against him, his hands and mouth, and Richie lets him. It feels almost too much, a brutal rush of sensation. Richie’s mouth is wet and insistent, stubble scraping the curve of his ass, tongue driving into him in a way that reminds Eddie that he wants more.

“Come on,” he says, pulling away from Richie. “I want you to— _ah_ — I want you inside me.”

“Yeah,” Richie breathes. Eddie can feel it against his skin, and he can’t hide the shiver twitching through his skin. “Shit. Yeah.” And then Richie’s springing into motion — nearly falling off the bed, from the sound of it, mattress bouncing as he rears back to grab a condom off the nightstand.

“You ready?” Richie rubs the head of his dick over Eddie’s hole, a shallow, retreating pressure. He frowns and shoves back against Richie. 

“Don’t be a fucking tease,” Eddie hisses, and Richie squeezes Eddie’s hip and laughs, shifting his weight closer, finally pressing in.

Richie starts slow, easing into Eddie in measured strokes, but picks up the pace as Eddie relaxes, arching to meet Richie’s thrusts. He runs his hands up and down Eddie’s back, grabbing at Eddie’s hips to fuck him harder. Eddie lets his head fall to rest on the cool coverlet. He can feel sweat gathering at the small of his back as Richie fucks him and he fucks back, can feel it dampen Richie’s skin. Eddie’s breath hitches in his throat. He tries to keep quiet, to bite his own lip, turn his face into the pillow, but then Richie pushes at him, changes the angle of his hips so he’s fucking against Eddie’s prostate, and Eddie forgets to shut up. Forgets that he cared.

“Yeah, Eddie,” Richie murmurs, straightening. He digs his fingers into Eddie’s asscheek, thumb pressing flat along the edge of Eddie’s hole, a surging pressure that threatens to overwhelm Eddie’s brain and white out his vision. Richie slows his hips, and all Eddie can think about is the sound of Richie fucking him: the creak of the mattress, their panting breaths, the soft wet noise of the lube as Richie’s dick slides in and out of him.

“Are you watching?” Eddie gasps. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “You feel so good— _hah_. I wanted this so fucking bad. You and that stupid fucking suit, that _bowtie._ ” 

“You—” Richie’s hips stutter. His mouth, too. “Eds, Ed _die—_ ”

Richie says Eddie’s name like he’s desperate, like he’s begging, and the thought is like a depth charge directly into Eddie’s brain, reverberating in his skull. He grabs at the bed for purchase, bracing himself with a forearm as he reaches for his own hard cock. 

“Richie, I have to—” Eddie breaks off with a moan as he finally, finally gets a hand on his dick, just slick enough to feel good.

“Please, let me, I want to,” Richie says frantically, body bowing forward to press against Eddie’s back, hand coming to wrap around Eddie’s own. Richie doesn’t stop fucking him, relentless and unerring, driving Eddie crazy.

“Yeah, like that, I love your hands. Shit, Richie, you make me feel so fucking good. Come on—”

Richie groans helplessly, burying his face in Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie can feel it rumble low in Richie’s chest where it’s pressed against his back. He’s starting to lose his rhythm, getting sloppy as his hips shove Eddie’s dick into their joined hands.

Eddie’s feeling too much to focus on any one sensation for too long, his brain skipping between them like snapshots on a slide projector: Richie’s breath is hot against his shoulder. His chest hair rubs against Eddie’s back. His knees bracket Eddie’s thighs, free hand splayed on the bed just in front of Eddie’s face.

All at once, it’s too much, his body strung tight between the points of contact, Richie all around him, and he comes with a choked cry. Richie’s shaking, burying his dick deep in Eddie’s ass, murmuring “fuck, fuck, fuck” against Eddie’s shoulder as he follows. Eddie lets himself fall onto the bed — into the mess of his own jizz on the coverlet, but for now, he doesn’t care — taking Richie with him.

“Holy shit.” Eddie says into the sudden quiet. Richie grunts in agreement.

When Richie tries to pull out, Eddie isn’t ready to let him go, so he doesn’t. Instead, he hooks a hand around Richie’s hip and tangles their legs until Richie stops trying, just rests on top of Eddie. Even though it makes it hard for Eddie to catch his breath, he doesn’t let go, memorizing the feel of Richie’s body, the bulk and weight of him, the way gravity draws them together. He takes a deep breath and lets go. Richie slips out and rolls away onto his side. 

Eddie turns his face toward Richie and looks his fill. Richie’s flushed all the way to his chest, panting as he tries to catch his breath. His skin is damp with sweat — _his and mine_ , Eddie thinks — and he stares back at Eddie staring at him, eyes wide. He looks like prey, holding himself carefully still so he won’t be seen. He looks like a toddler would at a marshmallow he’s been told not to eat. He looks exactly like himself. 

“Bev’s going to kill us for not saying goodnight,” Richie says finally. It’s not the wrong thing to say, but it’s not quite the right thing either. Richie usually goes for the extremes; it’s unlike him to land in the middle.

“Maybe,” Eddie whispers back. Richie’s hair is damp and plastered to his forehead and the side of his neck. It sticks up wildly in the back and over his ear. Eddie’s own handiwork. He reaches over to comb his fingers through Richie’s hair, to smooth down the mess he’s made, and lets his hand rest on the nape of Richie’s neck, palm cupped around it, mapping the boundary between hair and skin with his thumb. Richie relaxes into him, minutely, but Eddie knows him well enough to read it. “She’ll understand.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Title is from Want You in My Room by CRJ.


End file.
